I dunno why
I was driven
to come spit puke shit piss my soul
onto the tiny white fields of snow
pages seeking the movement above and below
microphonic bellow
with no sideline in the straight shit show
the insane circus
there you go
joined up joined in disjointed joinery
carping, carpentry maybe?
A young me Raven coated
crazy feathered
railing against the conformity
before the roar of my furious gleeful crew
ancient youths hell bent heavenly
Lunacy.
and it’s late
because the smog n smugness is thick
on the slaves as they masturbate and negate their fate
consummate consumers expert in gathering
clockwork clogged clots in the vein.
conformed and performed
the ritual of cooperation
again and again
as the money press
mamonumental case
ground on and crushed the rest.
I watched from my hiding place
useless
helpless
dissipating dispossessed
mysteriously designed for disinterest
in the progress of the projectionists
in a suicide belt and bullet proof vest
unwired to implode
under howl wake
I dunno why
I was driven to this bleak edge
watcher
voucher
witness of the witlessness
winter eyed
weeping at the wickedness
numbering the numbness
fearless furious
a figure of fun spurious
serial seriousness
menial meaninglessness
I dunno
I dunno
I dunno
why the gung ho tongue
the blunt blade

came
to
be
clamped there bloodied
in my mouthy teeth
I’d spit it out
and indeed
thought I had
but it wont leave me
it wont
it’s ingrown
and I can’t shake it
it’s an immortal pain
an endless fucking ache
sounds like a horn
for fucks sake
under Howl wake.

The day starts with pouncing practice as the new kitten ‘Scampy’ stalks my waking wiggling feet
under the duvet..nice to have helped the youth develop before you’ve even left the bed..er..
That’s the kind of sentence that can bring the thought police to the door.

The theme here is precious time.
It’s a heart attack theme
a washed up old fart theme
A quick step with the reaper is enough to remind us ‘this is it’
we better get on with it, be funnier, finish stuff, confess, I dunno.

I share my bands masterpiece (The Firedogs philistines better than Blurk)
‘Tick fucking tock innit’ again on Face bonk..no one says much only a thousand and fifty seven views.
Bastards.

Yesterdays unique and fabulous creations all went round the u bend with the other shit.

“How are you coping with things Mr. Jackson?”
asks doctor patronicus In the heart attack check up sketch.
“By drawing cartoons of myself in a blue onesy and claiming I’m one of the greatest artists ever on social media, I answer.
He stares a while in my poker face, still writing..
Eventually we both glance down wondering what he wrote.

I like the easy funny writers, the nearer comics ones..I’ve got nothing to prove by struggling through some convoluted doorstop of doom to impress my imaginary friend. fuck that.

Milligan, Vonnegut, Pratchett, Townsend and Hornby are the kings..funny clever and nearly as lazy as me..I’m a better cartoonist of course.
Just Saying.

Life is fucking sarcastically ironic really, Me and three talented mates pour a lifetimes experience and quite a lot of effort and skill into a musical opus (The firedogs LP philistines better than Oldplay)
and all we get is a five star Mirror review and eleven and a half sales.
I knock off an electro track with Asian female singing and sequencers throbbing semi automatically and before I know it I’m an award winning soundtrack bloke.
So it goes.

I find this scrawled on an envelope by the bed. The writing is a blind child version of my already partially sighted infant script.
“Now I’m slowing and shrinking I’m at odds with the rest of the universe, which is, they say, speeding up and inflating, or fucking showing off as I call it.
I’m super reluctant to live in this grotesque insane circus shit show they call consensual reality
I withhold my consent, preferring to live in Middle ear, or Risk world as they are nearly called.

If my parents had encouraged me properly I could have made Leonardo look like a shady chancer who doodled a bit, still, the pubs were open.
Did I mention I’m one of the greatest artists who ever lived?

“Good afternoon, ‘Cardiac” Says the huge American voiced receptionist.
“Take a seat Mr K” Says a nurse.
Somewhere it’s Kafkaesque
…and me I make the tiny bird prints in little field of snow on my lap.
Bolstered by being the most grateful to be here on the bus of complaining souls in.
They muttered about time
It’s ticking them off.
Outside a building sites ten storey thrum, anticipates many more sick people to come.
Bless.
“What have you done to me here?” the mighty receptionist asks the miniscule support guy in the hi vis support vest.
“Everything’s slid around”
Look there I am scratching in the notebook.
“I just want to go one place for everything”
“Take a seat Mrs. Dickinson”
It’s literature day in the cardiac unit as Mr K leaves suddenly a picture of inexplicable enigmatic anger.
Sometimes you hear poetry.
Others complaints.
“Sorry sir I’ll be right with you”
“That’s ok I have all the time in the world”
“Are you sure?”
Grim chuckles, call yourself support!?
“The human mind is amazing aint it?”
A three kilogram bullshit generator according to Kurt vonnegut…
“Mr K?..MISTER K!?”
From a cosmological viewpoint none of us get out very often.
Honestly the shit I find myself thinking.
I hear my broken heart beat
It’s a medium tempo hip hop
a groove at the centre of us all!
I resist rapping to it, but will travel home trying to remember it.
I see all four chambers.
Like the expectant mother of nowt.
Home on miseries packed number 12
Crammed in with people bored of the sea and the sun sinking into it,
vermillion,
Ignored.
I’m kindle-ing two books alternating chapters because i’m a brilliant maverick who does whatever the fuck he wants..
Just Like you.
I decide to write down the first thing I read from each and no cheating..
From From Yuval Noah Harari’s ’21 lessons for the 21st century’
“Today close to 1.25 million people are killed annually in traffic accidents (twice the
number killed by war, crime and terrorism combined)
and from ‘Good omens’ by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
‘She carries her sword and smiles like a knife’
Teatime in eden.

Well, I don’t know what
Moves you lot
today.
With your telephone small talk

and selfies
Is everyone but me here
A tourist?
on the aching familiar trail north
Running, (but crawling) late
Some poor selfish bastard
Hurled himself on the rails?
Our grave pilot tells us
The silence for him or her
Is not a minute
Nowhere near
A teenager says
‘what’s the point?’
So no change there
Invent your own I think
but I don’t say it
I can’t be bothered frankly
They’ll probably fucking shank me.
Today it’s Mrs C’s funeral that moves me
and everything that can go wrong
Does
and it’s ‘Is this our stop or the next one?’
Cuz
What y writing asks his ‘cousin’
‘Thoughts’ I deadpan
‘heard of them?’ I nearly add
Burgess and his hill be damned!
‘So what ya thinking’
He insists
‘This n that just sketches’
‘Is it a rap?’
He guesses

This just in
The bloke who looks nothing like a rapper
Went to the toilet then sat somewhere else
as no one got on or off
at Wivelsfield.
Where was I?
The automated tannoy voice
is broken
Makes its announcements Helium voiced
Some grim smiles wan
Haywood and his heath be damned
In Monday cold sunshine
Smile later in the week maybe…
A moby blats
half an conversation begins shouty
about the outlook for someone called ‘wiggy’
after what was said and done
at the party
furtive frowns
abound
I think about the funeral
and tune it out
Balcombe intervenes
Ball comb?
Leave it!
No one on or off again
pointless stop two
Can you believe it?
The button that you thought would open the door
Flushes the loo.
Feel a little sad and sick
push on heroically
Well Gat my wick.
The voice of michael mouse speaks quickly
If you see something that doesn’t seem right
Inform the staff
I see a first class twat
See it say it sort it
good luck with that

There follows an apology for the disruptions
squeaky and insincere
No one laughing
or listening here
a distant voice calls
‘The old rapper disappeared!’
‘Got off at the airport coz he’s posh’
everyday folk shouting everyday tosh
The cartoon rodent voice interrupts
(the only thing here that’s high speed)
Your next stop is east Croydon
That’s it blame me!
My life, a fiasco viewed by a clown
at least London Bridge
Hasn’t fallen down
a relief
I’m looking late for the funeral
It appears
Is that pathos or bathos
well it’s one of them Musketeers
Black friars
says the disembodied Disney voice
no thanks
an arrow outside then says ‘Holborn hill’
another says ‘cash machine’
adjust pants.
It drags on,
on the blue tartan seats of doom
On and on
apparently, somewhere,
Someone’s Farring Don
then Saint Pancreas
A troubling name
Fucking Saints
Fucking train
Fucking time ticks me off
fucking late
We trundle through a dying station with no name
Extinct
Gone
as the shrill rodent says the saints name
and someone say’s
‘What did she say?’
and I realise it’s been Mini all along
and I’m counting down the stations
of the cross country slog
destination nearing snail paced
Clock flying and walking this race
black suit pale face
grinds teeth wills haste
No chance Jacko
no way mate
Sorry Mrs C
we’re both late I guess
Mini speaks but I miss it
trying to think of a rhyme for St Pancreas
and
I look white in the window reflection
and glum
trying to immortalise
my mates mum.
an old girl smiling
catches my eye
says ‘you look very smart
where y headed’
A funeral I sigh
she says
‘Oh no, have you far to go’
I say no the next one is mine’

A Coda.
(Free blood of Albion)

So at the terrific service for the last of the great original matriarchs of our tribe, in the willow whack

test match sunshine of Hertfordshire, , the pastor mentioned that Mrs C had received her gold medal for donating her 50th pint of blood!..Think now you whirling headed children of the digital wasteland that is England ltd.com. Think slow and long on how the NHS, -this fabulous edifice manned by the self sacrificing saints of healing and caring- is fuelled by the free blood given daily by these quiet angel heroes. and ask yourself, you practicality driven materialists of the enterprise profit curse, would they, would Mrs C, have been elevated by charging for it?
How many nameless lives did she save?
Who would look to profit on her like?
Should those who would decide the fate of the free blood of Albion?

The Hall of Zeroes
Is packed with liars and thieves
Big mouths and heads who said
Follow me.
then led you nowhere
sell outs and creeps
In the Hall of Zeroes
That is all you will see.
they’re having an episode
It’s a repeat
The hall is full of gawping fools
Who don’t know
they are there to clean
and polish the Zeroes medals
and kiss their fucking feet
There’s a Hall of Zeroes
In your high street
It’s the finest building
That I guarantee
who paid for this palace?
It was you and me
It looked like it would stand there
for all eternity
and yet last night they torched it!
In your fucking dreams.

I’ve been in a lot of bands.
Over the many years I’ve luckily survived.
They’re families, tribes and gangs.
Don’t argue they are.
We had a band in the early days me and my mate who cooked up music from bits I gave him and his own bits, We’ll call him Stu for fun.
Short for stupor as we practised derangement of the senses as advocated by all our favourite artists.

We were children who hated the Society we’d been marooned in.
We wanted to ridicule it and precipitate change based on our childlike belief that anything would be better than the unfair grim bollocks we saw.
We called the band Hells Donkeys.

An angry noise designed to shock and annoy.
Beautiful.
We couldn’t afford the good things in music our folks had spent all their money in stuff from adverts.
We played stolen instruments and borrowed a couple of amps then avoided the owners indefinitely.
We were rich in ideas and desire but they don’t get you studio time and transport and stuff.
We had to find finance somehow or the dream was pointless and we’d be stuck jamming in a shed.
We had to compromise and invite the posh boy to join because he had a van and equipment and money.
We’ll call him Peter not peat.
Because that was his name.
We knew he considered himself superior in every department to us but the ‘mission’ we decided was worth it..and laughing about him while he was up the bar getting the drinks in got us past the
frustration of having to pollute our muse with the very type we despised.
He wanted to be in a family, a gang, a tribe because his was rubbish.
These uptight snob folk feared intimacy as they craved it and couldn’t help scheming and condescending to compensate.
He diluted are vibe and made loads of pretentious suggestions that threatened to spoil our style.
Peter not peat.
He didn’t get that our music, songs and attitude were forged like firedogs on the brazier from years of the heat of heartfelt disbelief at the insane circus.
Not for Peter not peat tho’
His folks worked for the circus and were close friends with the ring master you see.
Everything we did was compromised by his contribution and tuning out the embarrassment at his entitlement and affectation drove us slightly sly and bonkers.

That’s the world, that’s art.
The will to change and challenge to live a new way held back by deluded clowns.
It still drives me n Stu mad.
It’s still the same.
Peter not peat.